


Like a Pining Thing

by cowboykillers (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-05
Updated: 2011-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-26 23:00:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cowboykillers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pining looks good on you, darling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt on the BBC Sherlock kinkmeme:
> 
> I need Sherlock pining for John like a pining thing! He attempts to woo John, but unfortunately his version of wooing often looks like a cat presenting its human with a dead mouse. (Actual dead mouse may or may not be involved.) And it all comes to a head on a long train trip. (Because John and Sherlock need to be on more trains.)
> 
> Ending up with S/J, please.

It wasn't arrogance to consider himself one of the quickest-witted men of the modern age. Arrogance would have implied that he had an elevated and _undeserved_ opinion of his own intelligence and powers, or at the very least that his regard for himself was overstated, absurd, or offensive. (Well, if you asked John, more often than not it _was_ offensive, but he couldn't worry about every second person getting a bee in their bonnet because he was cleverer than they were and wasn't afraid to express it.) No, people seemed to assume that because he wasn't modest that he was arrogant, a presumption that he could easily see coming from those with lesser facilities for higher-level reasoning and fragile egos. It wasn't true, of course, because he never overestimated himself - overestimating himself would only lead to failure, because of course he wouldn't meet his own expectations and then he would be vulnerable and allow his opponent to gain the upper hand - but he often grew tired of arguing with the mindless masses. So unsatisfying in the long run.

So very boring all the time.

John was different, of course. He couldn't quite place his finger on why he was different, he simply knew that he was. His intelligence was barely above average, objectively speaking; of course he had very specialized knowledge that Sherlock lacked, but in a general sense, he knew too little about too many things to be considered really well-rounded and intelligent in any one area aside from medicine. His head was full of useless facts, inane things like cosmic relations and pop culture, and they interfered with his really utilizing his mind in the proper manner. It was a pity, because Sherlock had known him to be especially keen on certain subjects, and if he only took a care with what he decided to ponder while he woolgathered, he might actually cultivate an intellect impressive enough to be really proud of.

John never took well to that suggestion. Usually the conversation devolved into finger pointing and John lording useless knowledge over Sherlock, as though that would somehow prove his superiority in something.

Being superior in mastering useless knowledge was not precisely what Sherlock would have wanted to be remembered for post-mortem, but to each their own. (Usually, this was the point where John threw a very British fit and left him to his own devices. Usually, this was Sherlock's ultimate aim in the argument anyhow, and so ah-hah! Game, set, match.)

When you looked at his CV, so to speak, he wasn't that impressive. Certainly an extraordinary doctor, but there were plenty of extraordinary doctors. He had an ease of temper and general attitude that was pleasing, largely because he seemed to take most of Sherlock's antics in stride, but that wasn't enough to wholly sell the man as being the most impressive, pleasing, satisfactory relationship that Sherlock had. Frankly, he didn't know what exactly it was about John Watson that he adored as much as he did (and admitting as much had been an uphill battle, but he'd eventually decided that putting a name to his feelings was more appropriate than ignoring them, as they tended to fester while he wasn't looking) and that was frustrating, but ultimately out of his control. What _was_ in his control, however, was how he handled that adoration, and what he decided to do with it.

Now, Sherlock had grown accustomed to a particular way of life. That way of life included John at nearly every turn, and he found that he was happier, healthier, and generally more productive now that he had John in his life. John, too, seemed to be only improving from their continued association - after all, who did he have to thank for getting rid of that limp? Yes, quite. - both physically and spiritually. There was a robustness to his manner, a generally more happy and relaxed air that only seemed to improve as time went on (and as they weren't targeted by psychotics, though those incidents were few and far between) and that indicated to Sherlock that their relationship was a symbiotic one. In short, they improved one another by mere presence, and the longer their proximity was sustained, the greater level of improvement that came to each.

His general satisfaction at their relationship had endured for a time. Sherlock, openly disdainful of romance and all the trappings that came along with it, had convinced himself that he and John had the perfect pseudo-relationship that allowed for all the benefits of, well, married life, but didn't include any of the pesky and irritating downfalls. They were not solely responsible for one another's happiness, though they played a good part in the pursuit of it, and they did not have to answer to one another unless they wanted to. There was no obligation, there were no real demands, and yet they coexisted (largely) peacefully and harmoniously, give or take a few incidents about the refrigerator and bullets in the wall. His partnership with John was, frankly, what he'd convinced himself he would never find and therefore was exactly what he wanted, only when he had it, he began to realize how entirely insufficient it was.

Certainly, it met all his basic needs. (Aside from sex. But lust and lechery were things that could be quelled if necessary, and to date Sherlock had found them distracting and ultimately impossible to find in a long term partnership, as he could hardly put up with the same person long enough to shag them more than once, and he'd never met anyone like John prior to, well, John.) Rightfully, he had no reason to complain or even want to change the parameters of their partnership, as it was as undemanding as it was fulfilling, and Sherlock was not the sort of man who expended great effort on anything that didn't merit it. Why would he waste his energy? His time? His valuable, valuable time?

Well. Sarah, for one.

John had been mooning after Sarah for nearly as long as Sherlock had known him, and while he had been amused and indulgent at first, now it was getting on his nerves more than a little. No, their relationship wasn't progressing at any pace that worried him, but he kept an eye out and an ear to the ground just in case. The last thing he needed after achieving such a perfect example of symbiosis was to have John snatched away from him by a passably pretty woman with similar interests and little to no real excitement or stimulus in her life. Wouldn't John get _bored_? How utterly reprehensible. Spending one's life doing mundane things, like the shopping and watching the telly and cleaning house and cooking dinner, and oh certainly, a snuggle here and a shag there and those were all well and good, but where was the excitement? The thrill? Sarah couldn't provide him with mental stimulation, and as much as he did adore John, he knew his mind would stagnate without constant revelations and challenges, and the man could really not stand to get any duller than he already was.

(Not that Sherlock found John dull always. Or even most of the time. John seemed to be the unknowing but fully deserving subject of the John Watson Exceptionalism, though Sherlock couldn't say how long he would continue to find his best friend endearing if he was off _married_ and raising children and puttering about someone else's flat, letting his brains rot and his limp return and all that.)

It stood to reason that Sherlock could not allow John to become more attached to Sarah than he already was. Worse, if he kept on the way he was, she might begin to have more than a passing fancy for him in return, and then Sherlock's equilibrium would be shaken and his home life disrupted and, oh, the man he adored would be off with someone else and he would be cranky and distracted and generally useless for the foreseeable future. Unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable. So, while he wasn't generally a fan of romantic entanglements, he couldn't very well allow his John to be snatched out from under his nose while he sat back idly and couldn't be fussed to put the effort into the most basic and serviceable of relationships.

That John was drawn to him, at least minimally, was not in question. Deny it as he might, there were certain physical indicators of attraction that the truly observant would notice if they knew what to look for, and Sherlock had been documenting them on his hard drive since that first sit-down in Angelo's. He'd never seen a reason to press on the issue, however, as John had adamantly denied any desire to further their relationship past the camaraderie that they maintained, and it hadn't been a concern of Sherlock's until his own feelings ran a little rampant. Quite against his wishes, but he couldn't go back and undo the thing, and he found that he wouldn't want to even if he had the ability.

He rather liked liking John Watson. The idea of remaining with him for the rest of his days, comfortably ensconced in 221B Baker Street with all the promise of lifelong adventure and forgiveness even after truly hairbrained ideas and impressive sulks, was very appealing. Almost dangerously appealing, he might consider, except risky things had always appealed to Sherlock, and the risk implied with caring for John Watson was minor enough that he could overlook it without much to-do. Nothing _really_ terrible could happen if his plans went a bit awry; John had forgiven him for most everything, even for having bombs strapped to his body and nearly being blown up, so a bit of seduction wasn't going to drive a wedge between them.

Very satisfied with himself, Sherlock tucked his legs up beneath him on the sofa, humming under his breath as he began to sketch out his plans for the wooing of one John Watson, MD.


	2. Chapter 2

It seemed it was going to be a late one, and Sherlock was absurdly pleased that John had texted him to let him know that he wouldn't be home at the usual time. That was very domestic and couple-y as it stood, and he was certain that Sarah wouldn't have gotten the same treatment had the roles been reversed in a believable way - say, perhaps, they had run off trailing a case and he'd forgotten about dinner with her. Certainly John would have apologized profusely and let her know when he got to his mobile again, but Sherlock had been witness many times to John simply getting swept up in the moment and forgetting trivial engagements. Truthfully, this was more than likely the reason his and Sarah's relationship hadn't progressed as far as it ought to have by then, but Sherlock wasn't complaining.

He also wasn't going to stop fabricating long, elaborate jaunts around London when he knew that Sarah and John had plans. He didn't do it all the time, certainly, but just often enough to keep the seed of doubt in her mind as to whether John could _really_ ever be a dependable boyfriend. The unfortunate collateral damage it did to John and his unresolved sexual tension was somewhat regrettable, but couldn't be avoided, and so he considered it a case of the ends justifying the means. It _would_ all work out in the end, he was convinced.

Which was precisely why, after sketching a loose plan for all the ways he was going to impress John and inevitably get a vow of undying love out of him, he had set upon the first phase of his plan. John really didn't like when his experiments bled all over the kitchen. (Well, "bled" in the figurative sense - though he also seemed to get testy when they actually did bleed all over the place. As though that was generally Sherlock's plan! Unless he was studying blood pooling, there was absolutely no use in having blood all over the place. Hmph.) This was a fact, one that Sherlock had often considered and dismissed, as John never raised too much of a fuss when he did find, oh, fingers in the peanut butter jar or eyeballs in the microwave, et cetera. Still, in the interests of further endearing John to him, Sherlock had decided to make a thorough run of the flat and collect all his experiments from the places they weren't strictly supposed to be.

It was thankless work if such a thing ever existed. Sherlock almost gave up about three times through it, throwing himself on the nearest surface and sulking until he recalled that this was all with the greater good of having John all to himself in mind. That was enough to rouse him again, though as he went along he realized that some of his experiments were rather more, um, caustic than he recalled. Especially the one that was tucked under the stairwell to John's room, though that was largely because he'd forgotten about it.

He wondered how often Mrs. Hudson actually checked on 221C. Perhaps he could make it a bit of a dumping ground until he decided what exactly to do with all the odds-and-ends experiments he had running about the flat.

Cheered by the thought, he began to make several trips up and down the stairs, whistling a merry tune as he went. By the time he'd rearranged most of the overflow into some semblance of order he was more than ready for John to be home, observe his handiwork, and praise him greatly for it. That in mind, he perched himself on the edge of his favorite seat, dressing gown tucked tightly around his knees and his phone balanced carefully between both hands.

 _COME HOME. BORED. SH_

It took a few moments, but the return text indicated that John was nearly there. Sherlock smiled, thumbs flying rapidly over the keys once more.

 _NEARLY NOT GOOD ENOUGH. SURPRISE IN THE KITCHEN. SH_

There was a considerably longer pause between texts this time. John was probably slowing his walk, frowning as he tried to consider what Sherlock would consider a _surprise_ for him, and whether or not it would be potentially life-threatening. To be fair, most things that intrigued Sherlock were rather more dangerous than the standard person's idea of a good time, but John ought to know by now that Sherlock wouldn't _intentionally_ put him in danger. Not in their own home, anyhow. Danger on a case was sort of implied, and he couldn't be held responsible for criminals actually living up to their reputations once in a while.

(Even if he sometimes did hold himself at least partially responsible, and even if sometimes he woke up from what were _not_ nightmares with a cold, leaden ball in his stomach that was _not_ guilt when he considered just how close he and John had come to becoming- well-

Deceased was the word. He didn't like it, and he found he liked it less when he considered it in the context of John's personal well being. So he would be careful not to let _that_ happen again.)

 _Sherlock, I've had a long night. If it's not a nice surprise I'll pass._

Since he knew John was already at the door, Sherlock sprang up and stalked to the window. It took a moment's work but he managed to wrest the window open, leaning out into the chilly air to send a near maniacal grin down on his flatmate. His hair, wild and curly at the best of times, billowed around his head and was proof enough of extended activity that John actually laughed at him.

"Come on," he said eagerly, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I didn't spend all evening on this to have you dally."

"All right, all right." Though it was obvious that John was tired, even from the distance and with poor lighting, he smiled a bit and let himself inside. John's uneven stride only served to amp up his excitement, his heels thudding loudly against the stairs as he made his way up - tired, so tired, but he would be _so pleased_ that it would be worth it - and Sherlock couldn't wait, he flung the door open for him and beamed at him.

John's eyebrows arched up, a confused half-smile playing on his mouth. "Well, evening to you as well."

"Come along," he said impatiently, gripping John by his upper arm and not even allowing him the time it would take to get rid of his jacket. Resigned to his fate, John allowed himself to be led into the kitchen like a weary parent, just as eager for Sherlock to show off his most recent experiment as he was to take off his shoes, have a hot shower, and get to bed.

Once they crossed the threshold to the kitchen, Sherlock released his friend and turned, pride etched onto every available inch of his face. He planted his hands on his hips, the tips of his fingers bunching up the dressing grown around him, and rocked back on his heels. And then he waited.

He'd carefully combed every section of the flat to make certain that it was an entirely experiment-free zone... save for the kitchen. Now, all of the chaos and intricate workings of his many and varied experiments were contained, some in their earliest stages, others very near to having the final notes written up and then being discarded. To see his in-progress experiments aligned as they were, covering every inch of every available surface, was more than a little flattering to Sherlock's ego. It showed the flexibility of his mind, as well as the extreme variety of his interests; with the sweep of an eye, he could rattle off the nature and purpose of each thing his gaze fell upon, and the knowledge he would gain from even this tiny makeshift lab was enough to send little shivers of excitement from his feet to his heart. It was a truly impressive sight.

Not bothering to look at John, knowing fully well that he would be as impressed as Sherlock was, he said happily, "Do you see, they're all-"

"-all over the bloody place!" John interjected, finally seeming to find his voice. There were a few moments of stunned silence, which was impressive when one considered it was Sherlock Holmes who was laboring under it, which allowed John to continue with his rant, running a hand through his hair and spiking it up a bit. "I told you I'd had a long day, and you know how I feel about all these experiments on a good day, and _damn it_ , Sherlock."

John jabbed his hand through the air, all his fingers stiff and pointing save for his thumb, tucked against his palm. He was gesturing toward the tiny stretch of counter usually reserved for his teapot and cups, and Sherlock winced, recognizing it at once. Ah, that was a bit not good.

"That's where I make my tea! You know that's my tea spot. Don't have an inch of room to breathe in the kitchen except for this corner, and now it's got... I don't even know what it's got," he said helplessly, turning away and massaging his forehead with one hand.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but surprisingly, John anticipated him. "Don't tell me what it's got; I don't actually want to know."

Despite his annoyance at having such a thoughtful and caring gesture somehow turned around so that he was at fault, Sherlock couldn't help the tiny glow of pride at John having known exactly what he was going to say. In the back of his mind, a smug voice intoned that it was very _coupleish_ , even while most of his thoughts were presently whirling around a few very select questions:

Why was John angry?

What could Sherlock do to make him not angry?

How could he have so grossly miscalculated his response?

Why did he feel slightly disappointed?

The answers came to him quickly (tired, send him to bed, relationships weren't his area, see prior) and he acted on them after only a brief hesitation, deciding to derail the rest of his plans for the night in favor of getting John carefully tucked away in bed. This had been a colossal misstep on his part, but really, he thought John was overreacting a bit. The fact that he didn't immediately say as much proved how very hard he was trying, but it was unfortunate that John was not observant enough to notice that and take it into account.

Sigh.

"John, John," he said bracingly, lifting his hands. "I didn't mean to make you angry. I thought you would be happy to see all of my experiments together. But I can see you're very tired and just need some sleep, so-"

"That's not it," John returned, a laugh bubbling up around his words. "You ridiculous, daft git. I'm not angry because I'm tired, I'm angry because you started up about seventy different experiments while I was gone at work. Can't you handle your boredom by, I don't know, watching a bit of telly or surfing the internet or passing out on the sofa with a book?"

While he was flattered that John thought he had the capabilities to orchestrate and execute this many experiments in such a short amount of time, he couldn't sincerely take it as a compliment, given the inherent impracticality of it. John simply didn't know better, after all, so he couldn't fluff up (too much) about it. "John, I'm flattered, really, but don't be simple. I couldn't have possibly started all these tonight. I simply relocated them."

A funny thing happened then, something that surprised and intrigued Sherlock every single time it occurred. Normally, John was so far from temperamental that it was almost disappointing, as Sherlock did dearly love to be indulged when he actually wanted a row. However, every once in a while, his dear friend would be roused to some fit of emotion, and they would have it out until they were both giggling like loons and could resume their day unhindered. He really shouldn't have taken advantage of the fact that John was tired and had probably had a rough time at surgery, and it looked like things with Sarah weren't doing all that well either, poor man, but -

But really! He was being very ungrateful. Ungrateful and angry, if the quick intake of his breath was any indicator (it was) and the way he squared his shoulders and exhaled through his nose. It was... appealing, for lack of a better word, and slightly distracting when Sherlock considered that he was supposed to be forming a rebuttal for John's rare and elusive temper.

Not distracting enough to render him incapable of defending himself, of course, but distracting enough to notice, which was a marvel in and of itself.

"Pardon me for being _simple_ , Sherlock." His voice was quiet, very carefully modulated if Sherlock was any judge of it. (He was.) "Do you mean to say that these are all experiments that were... elsewhere? In the flat?"

The way he asked the question it was very clearly not a question at all, but Sherlock felt obligated to answer it. For John, he would. He would humor this line of questioning, and he would make right this entire botched attempted at strengthening his flatmate's affection for him. And later, after John was tucked into bed, he would replay all of this in his mind and revise his plans for John's seduction.

But, well, one thing at a time.

"As you can see," Sherlock said, gesturing rather grandly. "These experiments are in varying stages of production. There's no possible way that even I could rush the results of so many projects as to hurry them along, as even I have not mastered the ability to manipulate time." It was a joke. He waited for John to snort in laughter.

Ah, no, apparently not.

When John didn't speak, Sherlock's brow furrowed, a touch of annoyance coloring his tone. "I thought you would appreciate the fact that my experiments are contained! And that the overflow has been removed from the flat."

"Overflow?" Incredulous, John's head snapped up, took in the appearance of the kitchen once more. Really, there wasn't a spare piece of counter to be had, so Sherlock wasn't certain what he was looking for. "How could you possibly be running more than this in the flat under my nose without-nevermind. Where did you put the rest of them?"

Sherlock was silent.

"Oh, no, you don't." Finally turning to face him, John crossed his arms over his chest, brows furrowed mightily. "Fess up, Sherlock. Where are they?"

He had a feeling John was going to get more annoyed with him, and that was definitely not part of the plan. He tilted his head up, chin thrusting out stubbornly, and said, "I would rather not say."

"Well I don't give three good god damns whether you'd rather run about the flat naked and sing show tunes," he said, very calmly and carefully for someone who was saying such ridiculous things. "If you've got experiments all lumped together somewhere festering, it's a health hazard. Where are they?"

"Do you really think I'd put potentially harmful things together in a capacity where they would interact and become an issue?" Sherlock challenged, leaning forward slightly, curls bouncing across his forehead.

John's chin jerked up, determination warring with exhaustion. "I don't think you'd do it on purpose, but I do think that you get carried away."

"Nonsense!" Sherlock whirled, his dressing gown flaring around his ankles, and muttered, "The very idea."

"And now you're pouting." John sidestepped, crossing the flat in a few long strides and catching Sherlock's arm. "Sherlock. Please."

Though he was mollified by the _please_ , that didn't mean that he had to openly show it. Couldn't give too much away, after all, or John wouldn't realize exactly how much Sherlock was struggling and, ultimately, reforming his "wicked ways" for him. Or something like that. He was certain that it didn't matter what the actual sexes of the partners were when it came down to it; whether it was a man and a woman, two men, or two women, everyone liked to feel like they had an impact on their partner. Sherlock was clever enough to see exactly how he was bringing John more fully into himself every day, but John, dear John, needed a little help now and again.

He stiffened briefly, still sulking a bit, and then dropped his shoulders in a quick, irritated shrug. " _Fine_. If you really insist-" A quick glance to John confirmed as much. Sigh. "-then I will tell you."

There was a long, dramatic pause, and he waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the stairwell. "221C."

John was shocked enough for a moment that Sherlock almost managed to throw himself bonelessly on the couch, but halfway there, his friend gripped his arms and swung him in a semi-circle, placing him directly in front of him once more. Sherlock blinked, a little appalled and a little bit intrigued, when John said, "No, certainly not. You're coming with me and we're gathering them all up and taking them somewhere to be disposed of."

His intrigue evaporated in an instant. "Right _now_? Look at the time! You're tired, John," he said soothingly, reaching out to run his fingertips down the length of John's upper arms. "Surely it can wait until morning."

"Surely it can't," John returned with a grunt, shaking his shoulders until Sherlock drew his hands back. "And stop petting me. I'm not an animal. Come on, get some real shoes on. We've work to do."

There was no use arguing with John when he was like this. Oh, Sherlock could probably eventually get his way and stomp off to bed, and John would probably be annoyed with him for the rest of the night, perhaps through morning at the worst, but it seemed like that would be counter-productive to his plans. He wanted to endear himself to John, after all, not send him to bed thinking angry thoughts. Giving in once in a while would do no real harm. It might even show John what a good influence he was having on Sherlock!

Smiling sunnily, his apparent stubborn streak having subsided, he slipped his feet into a pair of slippers and breezed past John and down the stairs. "Come on, then! We can get ourselves a bite to eat on the way back!"

Though grumbling, true to form, John followed behind him with only minimal hesitation.


	3. Chapter 3

After several trips to and from 221C, John and Sherlock managed to rid the spare flat of all his discarded experiments, and even though he was so tired that he felt like he was wearing cement bricks for shoes, John agreed to stop and have a bite at the Chinese place. He wasn't certain if he should be worried or not, as Sherlock generally only commemorated the close of a case by going out to eat, but by the time they settled down and began to flip through the menu, he really didn't care. Too tired, and too pleased to be eating, as a long day had turned into a longer night, and he'd managed to skip his dinner in favor of getting people in and out of the surgery as quickly as he could. Had he known that he'd be up until the wee hours of the morning anyhow, he might have set aside a few minutes to take a meal, but that was neither here nor there.

John had learned some time ago that you couldn't really plan for Sherlock Holmes, and he'd adjusted fairly well. It kept his life interesting and sometimes a little bit infuriating, but his temper was always quick to abate as long as it wasn't continually provoked. Almost as soon as Sherlock had realized his displeasure he'd sought to fix it, albeit not in the most... conventional way. Not that there was anything conventional about his best friend, so John really hadn't expected much different, but he could appreciate that the effort had been there, and there'd been only minimal complaining as they'd hauled all his excess paraphernalia to the lab so that it could be properly disposed of.

Then John had made Sherlock wash his hands up to his elbows, side-by-side with himself so that he could be sure it happened, and they'd slid into a little corner booth at their favorite Chinese place and ordered some food.

It was nice and peaceful, and even if he would rather be face-down in his bed catching up on some rightfully deserved sleep, this was better than some alternatives. Sherlock _could_ have just dragged him out on another case the moment he walked in the door, and God help him, he didn't think he would have refused. He found it was difficult to deny Sherlock much of anything when he was truly excited about it.

Eh, that was a dangerous thought. He could, and certainly had, denied his friend plenty of things, but for the most part, he went along merrily enough and assisted where he could, to their mutual satisfaction. If Sarah scolded him for coming to work with circles under his eyes and pressed coffee into his hand while he passed, well, it was... nice to have her attention?

Who was he kidding? His relationship with Sarah was going nowhere fast, largely due to the man sitting across from, serenely spooling noodles around his chopsticks as though he didn't have a care in the world. You'd think he'd be a bit embarrassed to be out and eating past midnight in his dressing gown, but apparently not. Had it been a bit too much to hope that he might be, so that perhaps he'd learn his lesson about going a little nutty while John was gone?

Yes, probably.

"We don't have any room in the fridge, so you'd better finish off your meal if you can." Slanting a glance from across the table, Sherlock added, "And none of _those_ experiments are in any position to be disposed of."

John stabbed his breaded chicken with a scowl, lifting the fork to point it across the table at Sherlock. (He wasn't quite skilled enough to do with chopsticks just yet, especially not when he was tired.) "We're going to go over some rules about our living arrangements. Revise them. Stick to the them this time."

Sherlock peered at him from across the table, and then after a moment's consideration, said, "No time like the present, John. What concerns you?"

How could he - absolute genius, but completely socially inept. Sometimes, it still even shocked John, who had largely come to terms with his brilliant flatmate's shortcomings. For a moment, he simply stared, and then he chuckled and pulled a pen out of his pocket.

"All right. How can you not have any idea? Sometimes, Sherlock." He shook his head, hunching over a small square of napkin. "Right, so, here. This is the kitchen."

Sherlock leaned over as well, shoulders up and expression intent on the sketch. "That is a remarkably faithful outline of our kitchen. I'm impressed, John!"

There was a little glow of pride, as there always was when Sherlock praised him, and John felt a little bit like a fool. Or a small child, maybe, unduly pleased by the attention of his... er. "Well, I did a bit of sketching and whatnot in school. Thought about being an architect, briefly." At Sherlock's intrigued look, he added, "Very briefly. All right, so here."

He pointed, tapping the surface with his thumb. "I require a space just for me. For my tea, for my biscuits, for my pants if I want them there, do you understand? This is all mine, and you can have free range of this expanse." He began marking up the napkin, penning a large J in the midst of his area, shading in the rest of the counter.

"Table top needs to be split fifty-fifty." Here Sherlock interjected a noise of protest, expression quickly going stormy when John spoke right over the top of him. "We can't always be having take-away and going out, and that aside, I'd like to be able to sit down at the table once in a while with the news and a cup of tea and not worry about putting my elbow in someone's eyeballs."

There was an ungracious snort. "If you simply took a care with where you set your elbow, you wouldn't have that problem."

John aimed him an unimpressed look. "No more experiments all around the flat. It's ours, Sherlock, not your flat with me kipping on the sofa now and then, so you need to respect my boundaries."

For some reason, Sherlock seemed pleased by this. There was a brief flare in his eyes, a large smile that dominated his face for a moment and then slipped back into the petulant half-sulk that he'd adopted for most of the conversation. Well, John wasn't going to sit there and puzzle it out; he just wanted to be heard, finish his meal, and go to bed. "And the fridge."

"What about it?" Sherlock demanded, hands knuckled on the tabletop. His noodles were, apparently, forgotten. "I require certain temperatures for some of my experiments, John. Even you know that."

"I do," John agreed, massaging his temples. Vision graying at the edges - yes, he needed some sleep. Just a nap, even, would be excellent. "And that's why we're going to get you... a mini place. Mini fridge," he corrected.

"How am I going to fit an entire human head into a mini fridge?" Sherlock asked skeptically.

It should have bothered John that no one bothered to look up and over; too used to the two of them at a table, muttering nonsense back and forth, apparently. "If you _really_ need use of the big one, you may have the bottom two levels _only_. I don't want anything dripping from your experiments onto the leftovers. I think I'm being very fair."

John sat back, hands laced in front of him, and waited for the argument. He was very surprised when Sherlock leaned forward more, smiled slightly, and agreed.

"Sorry?" John asked, blinking.

"Must I repeat myself?" Sherlock asked, sighing. "Your terms seem reasonable enough. As you have emphasized, it is _our_ flat." There was that smile again, slightly mischievous, completely indecipherable as far as John was concerned. "I suppose I must make compromises to keep you happy."

Bemused, John said slowly, "All right, then... you're sure I'm not going to have to bring this up again?"

"John." His face was slightly disappointed now, but in a patronizing sort of fashion; John could tell, because he reached across the table and patted his hands. "You know I hate repetition. If I have need of one of your spaces, I will.. ask."

The idea of Sherlock Holmes asking for anything was enough to make John snort a laugh. "Right then. Let's get this boxed up and... ah, bugger, no room in the fridge."

Sherlock signaled their server, a half-smile on his face. "Oh, I'll arrange some room. You just worry about going to sleep once we return home."

Later, face-down on his bed, John would consider it odd that Sherlock had referred to 221B as _home_ rather than the flat.

However, he was too damn tired to really care.


	4. Chapter 4

Days passed uneventfully, which was eventful in and of itself. John had a regular schedule at the surgery to keep, and the criminal underbelly of London seemed to be taking a collective holiday, which left Sherlock very little to do around the flat. Normally, this would have been catastrophic; John certainly expected it to be, as he often hesitated just outside the door and took a bolstering breath before crossing into the flat as of late. However, while he generally found Sherlock stretched languidly across the sofa, there was a very conspicuous lack of destruction and mayhem around the flat.

Very curious. John was getting concerned, which Sherlock could only consider to be a positive tick toward his venture. Truthfully, this _seducing John_ business had begun to prove itself to be marginally more difficult than he had originally anticipated, which was almost lucky in a way. It provided something for him to think about and distract himself with while he waited for Lestrade to bring him something worth puzzling. It wouldn't be enough for very long, but for now, it was sufficient to keep him from blowing things up out of frustration and boredom.

Puffing his cheeks out, Sherlock balanced his notebook atop his knees, boring a hole into the wall opposite him as he thought. John Watson, for all he was an agreeable, polite, calm, understanding man, was remarkably difficult to get to the heart of. He put up with much more than anyone else Sherlock had ever met, and yet when it came time to really attempt to woo him, Sherlock found himself at a loss. It was frustrating, but also fascinating in a way, because he _always_ knew how to get at people. A well-placed look, a deepening of his tone... a brush of fingers that lingered for just a moment longer than propriety demanded. All very subtle, stylish indicators of interest that would provoke an equal reaction in an already besotted party and more than likely inspire as much in a previously disinterested one. He'd tested his theory many times, largely to get information (and access to the morgue; poor, hapless Molly) and had yet to come across someone as seemingly unmoved as John.

Frustrating. But fascinating. John was a challenge, and not just because he was a man, though that certainly played a bit into it; despite the obvious physical attraction, John seemed reluctant to act on it, and so Sherlock was well aware he would have to do a bit of persuading in that area if he decided to ever make the relationship physically intimate. On that mark, he was still uncertain; current data indicated that it would not be necessary, as John doggedly pursued Sarah despite any lack of physical intimacy, but he was not prepared to close off any possible avenues prematurely. While Sherlock did not require physical stimulation most of the time, John was, as always, the exception to the rule.

The fact that John was apparently the exception to many other rules was not lost on him, but for all intents and purposes, he was very much an ordinary man. Well, an ordinary man with select extraordinary qualities that had attracted Sherlock from the very start.

He'd never been overly worried about Sarah (or any other woman, when it came to that) because largely he assumed John was seeking eventual sexual gratification. While an important part of many relationships, to be sure, it wasn't absolutely necessary for a functioning, healthy partnership, and so Sherlock had given little care to the idea of John satisfying his base needs elsewhere. He'd been on a few of John and Sarah's dates and, while the physical chemistry was apparent, he didn't worry overmuch about emotional chemistry between them. It was certainly there, but Sarah seemed to be the sort of woman who wouldn't allow one sort of intimacy without the other. Unluckily for John, who was a gentleman, that was rendered almost impossible due to the circumstances of his present life.

Sherlock was not sorry. If he had to choose between having a lover and having a staunch, steady companion, he would always choose the latter - and he had come to realize he would always choose _John_ for the latter. He couldn't allow him and Sarah to become a true couple, because John was the sort of man who would go ahead and marry her, and then he would have to find a new partner. (Partner? Hadn't John begun as his assistant? Well. Things changed.) The level of comfort, security, and all-around well being that they had both attained by their working arrangement would be lost, and that was completely unacceptable.

The telltale thump of boots on the stairs reached him, and Sherlock shifted on the sofa, stuffing his notebook deep underneath the cushions where it wouldn't be found. Unless he knew there was something to be looking for, after all, John generally kept to his own pursuits lest he disturb something he didn't really want to know about.

It was sort of endearing, in a way. Willful ignorance to prevent himself from being unduly annoyed with Sherlock. Well, it made him smile, anyhow.

The first thing he noticed when John entered the flat was that he looked remarkably cheerful. Cocking a brow, Sherlock greeted, "Evening."

"Good evening." John took off his jacket and hung it on a peg, still smiling pleasantly. "No disasters? I almost don't know what to do with you. It's like you've been domesticated."

For some reason, this seemed hilarious to John. Sherlock sighed internally, lacing his fingers in front of him and bowing them between his knees. "I've been working on a project. Why are you so pleased?"

Lowering himself into his habitual chair, John shrugged, turning on the television. After a few moments of mindless channel surfing, he gave in to Sherlock's pointed stare and admitted, "Date with Sarah tomorrow. Boring, dull, completely mundane by your standards. Still," he added, unable to help his grin. "I'm looking forward to it."

Sherlock's hands vised in front of him, but John didn't notice. A date with Sarah? But things had been going so well. Ever since the fiasco with his experiments in 221C, they'd settled into something of... well, a quiet, nearly tedious life. They'd survived stretches like this before, of course, and things were certain to pick up before long, but this was not going at all according to plan. After his compromise with the flat sharing and the general lack of disturbance over the past few days, he would have thought that John would have come to the proper conclusion by then - that he needed no one else but Sherlock.

It was so irritating to be reminded that John was a simple, stupid man at the core of it. He couldn't be expected to come to the proper conclusions all on his own. Poor man, he was still chasing after Sarah as though she had the ability to fulfill him the same way Sherlock did.

"Is that _really_ necessary?" He asked, perhaps more sharply than he should have.

John snorted. "Yes, it is. For me, anyhow. I understand that you've no interest in women, and that's your business and that's fine, as I've said. But I quite like Sarah."

"Women." Sherlock rose, pacing the length of the flat. "Relationships. More work than the payoff involved, if you ask me."

A comedy show was on, but John wasn't paying much attention to it. Rather, looking amused, he asked, "How do you figure? Certainly they're work, but I'd have to argue there's... a certain pleasantness to the entire ordeal."

"Oh, yes." Rolling his eyes, Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa, arms tucked tight against his chest. "Pleasant indeed. Someone always wondering where you are, what you're doing, who you're with. The moment you promise yourself to someone it's as though they never trust you again. You're expected to please them at every opportunity, satisfy all of their needs - even the _really_ unreasonable ones - and take time out of your day and your life to humor them when they're sad or fussy or lonely. And then when you throw _sex_ into the picture-" He just shook his head here, turning his shoulders away from John.

John, who had a date with _Sarah_ tomorrow.

"Sex is really excellent, actually," John said, and Sherlock could see he was making an effort. "Well, not always. Sometimes it's bloody horrible. Actually-"

"I've had _sex_ , John," Sherlock interrupted, shooting him a long, withering look. "I just don't believe that sexual gratification outweighs the general inconveniences associated with maintaining a relationship. For purely physical release, there are plenty of alternatives to maintaining a steady partner, most of which require minimal effort and distraction from daily life."

For all the attention John paid to it, the television might not have even been on. "Do you really believe that?"

The look Sherlock tossed him could not have implied otherwise.

"Hang on." John lifted his hand, looking a bit disbelieving. "No, I can't believe it. You're just jealous."

For a moment, something fluttered in his chest. Panic? Fear? Preposterous, and yet - "Jealous of _what_ , exactly?"

Smug, John crossed his feet at the ankles. "Things are looking up for me, and you're stuck here, bored out of your sodding skull. I'm sure Lestrade will have something for you soon. Don't worry."

Ah, no. Relaxing, and slightly disappointed at the same time, Sherlock muttered, "Jealous. Hardly. Do _try_ not to be so pedestrian, John."

Turning fully away, he tucked his robe underneath himself and scowled at the back of the sofa, ignoring John's chuckles all the while. He certainly wasn't _jealous_.

He would simply have to step up his game.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was out of sorts and irritable the entire time John was getting ready for his date, which was due in large part to the fact that John could not be persuaded to beg _off_ said date. Sherlock had tried nearly every trick in his book, including fasting and, at one point, hiding John's shoes, but to no avail. Not only was he absolutely dead set on his social outing with Sarah, he apparently was expecting it to be some kind of tide-turner; that was the only explanation for the alteration of his usual attire.

Frankly put, John looked more than a bit smart that evening, and Sherlock was uncomfortable with the degree that he noticed it. There were, obviously, several levels of awareness; Sherlock practiced a purely empirical one on a daily basis, with nearly everyone he came into contact with, and whether or not it was fleeting depended entirely on the subject. There was literally almost never an emotional reaction of any sort, unless his interest was piqued, and even then that was _curiosity_ rather than any sort of attachment. John referred to it as the "thrill" and he supposed that was serviceable enough; neither of them wanted to linger on what his general occupations were an obvious substitute for. He'd been clean for several years, after all, and had no intention of relapsing as long as Lestrade allowed him access to interesting cases.

However, he was simultaneously applying a variety of different levels of observation to John, and while the thought was mildly uncomfortable, he was hardly going to set aside such a perfect opportunity to gather more data. That he was invested in John, John's happiness, and John remaining at his side were all obvious and undisputed; _why_ , or at least to which degree all the different reasons pertaining to the why were actually allocated, was of interest to him.

Despite withholding judgment on whether or not he wanted to build toward initiating a physical relationship with John (and it would be so annoying to take the patient route; heteronormative ideals were so bothersome to navigate, even in a man who was so studiously devoted to _it's all fine_ as John Watson. He seemed to be one of the breed of men who could allow for any quirk or aberration from the supposed norm in others, but when it came to himself, well.) he was beginning to see the merit of it. It was nothing like a lightning bolt from the sky or a sudden, staggering punch of lust - and he'd experienced the latter, but that had been when he was young and naive - it was rather more comfortable than that, if something could be comfortable and then _un_ comfortable at the same time.

John was always inspiring these kinds of paradoxes in his head, it seemed.

From his vantage point on the sofa, sulk in full swing, it wasn't difficult to track his flatmate's progress while he fussed and readied himself for his date. John never dressed up to that degree when they went out together, which was obviously because he never considered them _dates_ , but it was still fractionally insulting. While Sherlock hadn't quite begun to woo John until fairly recently, he had pointed out when their acquaintance was relatively new that he awarded their outings the same sort of social significance that other people did dates; simply because he didn't _indulge_ in dating on a regular basis didn't mean that he misunderstood the importance of it. For every part of Sherlock's life that deviated from the norm, he had something to fill the space instead, after all.

Friends? First his skull, and then when he'd come along, John. He felt he was well rounded there. Sexual gratification? Intellectual gratification, obviously. Socialization? Well he saw Lestrade & co on a regular basis, didn't he? It wasn't as though he was holed up in his flat, never seeing the light of day. Really, the list went on and on - normal people filled their lives with sentiment and frivolity, and he filled his with science and purpose. Equal and opposite of the norm, many would say, because he preferred to get his stimulation through logic.. and he was fine with that.

Largely.

Narrowing his gaze at John, who had paused to lick his finger and attempt to coax his hair into submission once again, he snapped, "If you're going to just fuss with it continuously, put more product in it."

"So you can throw me off my game by dissecting my level of personal hygiene?" John glanced at him, smirking a bit as he adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves. "Not likely."

Steepling his fingers, Sherlock returned dourly, "If that's enough to put you off your game, I feel for Sarah. I really do."

Disappointingly, John didn't rise to the bait. He simply smiled, brushing his hands down his stomach, then over his thighs. (The motion was more distracting than it had a right to be.)

"Don't wait up," John said cheerfully. "Don't text unless it's an emergency. A real one, you know, not just that you can't be bothered to fetch yourself a pen. I mean it."

Sherlock's lip curled, and while John's back was to him, he amused himself by mouthing the rest of John's running dialogue. He was surprisingly accurate, all things considered, but carefully schooled his expression into resentment once again when John glanced over his shoulder.

"All right, then?" Lights began to flash on the wall, telltale blue laced with red that made Sherlock's pulse jump and John's shoulders sag. "Oh, come on, Lestrade, really?"

Springing up from the sofa, fingers wiggling at his sides in an attempt to redirect his delight, Sherlock spun to John. "A case! I've been positively _lusting_ for a case, to put it in terminology that would mean something to you. Fantastic. Wonderful. Perfect timing."

Mouth drawn into a firmly unhappy line, John muttered, "For _you_."

Yes, for him - but also for John, though he was still pitifully in the dark about that. He waited until he could hear the footsteps, allowing his enthusiasm its brief, intoxicating run through his system, before he sighed and reached over idly to pluck a book from the coffee table.

"And as I was telling you, John - oh." The door swung open, and Sherlock blinked, as though surprised to see Lestrade there. "Detective Inspector. We were just headed out."

Lestrade glanced between them, apparently distracted enough by the state of their dress that he forgot why he'd come here. "Er," he said, very intelligently.

The tips of John's ears reddened, which Sherlock found more amusing than he ought to have, and he clarified, "I've a date with Sarah. Sherlock dressed up because... well, because. I actually don't know what he was intending."

Glancing down, Sherlock frowned faintly, trying not to be offended by John's words. While he hadn't exactly let his flatmate in on his plans thus far, he thought John ought to have been able to appreciate the fact that he'd stepped up his own wardrobe a notch in an attempt to sway John away from his date. The jeans highlighted both his legs and arse to great effect, and that wasn't sentiment in the least; he'd twisted in front of the mirror and studied himself very carefully while selecting this particular ensemble. John had always seemed to favor the purple shirt, anyhow, and he _knew_ that he did, because his eyes always went momentarily unfocused when he realized Sherlock was wearing it.

Pretending otherwise was simply unbecoming, he thought with a mental huff, and more than a bit ungracious.

"Right." Sweeping his jacket behind him, Lestrade braced his hands on his hips, distributing his weight between evenly spaced legs. He looked like he was gearing for a battle, Sherlock thought idly; interesting. "Something's come up."

"Obviously." Sherlock rolled his eyes, tossing the book carelessly. John snatched it out of the air, tucking it under his arm with an annoyed look. "Must we go through this song and dance every time?"

Lestrade's voice was quiet, his eyes guarded, when he asked, "Will you come, please?" The please was new. Sherlock's gaze sharpened, and his mind focused on it: _please_. What was different? "Both of you."

John's breath hissed out, softly, but before either of them could speak, Lestrade turned to John. "I wouldn't ask, but this... I know your date's important. And I'm sorry. But I need him," he gestured to Sherlock, who was tapping his fingers against his thighs to vent his mounting curiosity. "And I need you there, to keep him..."

He gestured, hand waving in front of him a bit uselessly, before he simply cupped it over his eyes and sighed. "There's a child."

John's gaze softened, and Sherlock knew that the fight was out of him. "You've seen dead children before," Sherlock said, before his limping social conscience could catch up to the rest of his intellect. "Ah-"

"This one's _alive."_ The way Lestrade said it, though, made it sound like that was nothing close to a positive. His voice was tight, rasping, as though there were a hand closing around his throat; his entire body was rigid, and a quick glance showed Sherlock that his fingers were digging into his hip.

"Have you called children's services?" John asked gently, already reaching for his jacket, movements hurried and precise.

"Yes, of course." They were both speaking as though Sherlock was not even present, and while normally this would have annoyed him, the fact that it made them both more hurried to leave was satisfactory. "Thank you, John."

He was already dialing, shaking his head as he walked. After a moment or so, he said, "Sarah, listen..." and after that, Sherlock ceased paying attention.


End file.
